


You're Gonna Be Fine

by shewho



Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Blood, Gen, Greg Parker centric, Greg Parker/Ed Lane, If You Squint - Freeform, Keep the Peace Part 2, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Stream of Consciousness, hints of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:46:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6551593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewho/pseuds/shewho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where is the medic?"</p><p>Ed is screaming, gloved hands pressed down tight everywhere he can reach on Greg's bloody form, and Greg wants to lift his own hand to the sniper's face to comfort him, to reassure, but he can't, he doesn't have the strength, and even breathing is hard.</p><p>"Stay with us, Boss," he hears the fierce whisper pleading in his ear, "You're gonna be fine."<br/>-------<br/>Alternate ending to the series finale (Season 5, Episode 13; "Keep the Peace: Part 2").</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Gonna Be Fine

**Author's Note:**

> WOW, I'm fucking sorry about this.

He feels his legs start to shake and give out, but there is a bomb that needs defusing, and Greg Parker is not about to put his team in danger if there’s anything he can do about it. His head is screaming and someone is really screaming in his earpiece and he can taste blood in his mouth but he can’t bring himself to care. Wires cut with no time to spare, he tries to heave himself into a standing position, but just falls back against the unforgiving metal slats of the catwalk. “You’re done,” he murmurs wetly, choking on blood. “You’re done!” Numbly, he watches the subject go down, tries to call out to Sam, to Ed.

His vision swims; the lights in the rafters whirl nauseatingly, and the grey sheen over the world seems to ebb and flow with each metallic inhale. In the intensifying darkness, there is nothing but a silent moment, stretching outward and outward. Rapidly, his mind picks through the different boxes and files he’s created over the years: here are his homicide detective stories, both the ones appropriate for mixed company and those which he locks away from everyone all the time; here are his favorite pranks he’s seen pulled at the SRU in his time; here is the coffee order of everyone he’s ever worked with; here is every snapshot memory of his son as an infant; here is his firearms training; here are his excuses for the bruises his father left in his wake; here is the box labeled ‘Family’, the people who really, really matter.

He thinks of Dean, sweet, merciful, tolerant Dean who swore he forgave his deadbeat dad for any and all sins committed in the past. He thinks of the boy who so desperately wants to be a cop, who wants to do good, wants more than just a teacher to judge his work. He thinks of the boy who’s a little terrified to let himself loose around his friends, who doesn’t drink with the kids his age because he’s terrified that what he might find beyond the shadows of the regulations he’s set for himself will be too jarring and disturbing to even begin to consider. He thinks of his son, who wants to pick and choose the facets of his father that he emulates and echoes. He thinks that Dean will be okay.

He thinks of Wordy, of that first day, “Hey, ‘m Kevin Wordsworth, but my friends call me Wordy.” He thinks of that smile that only graces Kevin’s face when he sees his girls. He thinks of the constant expression of unease the man used to wear when out on call, of how Shelley used to smooth out the lines between his brows with her thumbs when she came to pick him up after work sometimes. He thinks of quiet kindness, of stoic toughness, of unconditional support. He thinks of anecdotes begun and then tossed away halfway through because they were too embarrassing to continue sharing, of pranks and parenting tips, of living under the unluckiest star in the whole damn galaxy.

He thinks of Sam, of the wicked blonde hair he’s constantly trying to tame, all rough edges, and attitude hidden under decorum, “Yes, sir; no, sir; copy that, sir.” He thinks of carefully controlled recklessness and living for the moment because Sam knows firsthand and all too well that your number can come up at any time. He thinks of the young sniper, always so serious, frowning thoughtfully whenever he was working, but joking around during practices and training exercises, goofing off with the other kids, and teasing Wordy and Ed about being old men. He thinks of the man trying his best to live beyond the shadow of a name that everybody knows, of dogged discipline, and of the fierce blue gaze he knows deep down preceded punishment many times as a child. He thinks of a man who cannot un-see the blood on his hands. He thinks of huffed half-laughs, and that rare infectious sunshine smile.

He thinks of Spike, all height and angled joints and bright, exuberant gait. He thinks of gentle, soft eyes, and a spine of steel, and ferociously loyal friendship. He thinks of robotics, Spanish, Italian, chemistry, computer science, of Spike’s expertise in everything he touches. He thinks of the grounding effect his very presence has on the team, and he considers briefly if that is because it’s been Spike’s life hanging in the balance more frequently than any of theirs. He thinks of grease stains on cool pants, the grinding whir of Babycakes, and of fresh coffee in the mornings. He thinks of the catalyst that is Michelangelo Scarlatti heading them in the right direction late at night when they all seem caught up in a swirling vortex of halfway-done incident reports and unfinished paperwork. He thinks of the way the bomb tech laughs down the headset, like nothing really bothers him too much, eyes sparkling at the miraculous-ness of it all. He thinks also of how he frowns sometimes, dark eyes shuttering off and an expression falling over his face like his very soul was crumbling away, and he thinks of Spike, always bouncing back, always idealistic and reassuring and _young_.

He thinks of Jules, of Julianna Callaghan, reigning SRU princess, Jewel of the Prairies. He thinks of the endless exuberance and the spark that throws Jules into the things she deems important with the utmost enthusiasm, be in weight training or drywall installation. He thinks of lipstick and tac boots, of polished fingers steady on the trigger. He thinks of how everything with her is always dramatic; he thinks of the time her brothers had come up to visit and had swung by the barn, how they’d slapped the boys on the back and given their condolences for having to put up with their sister’s antics. He thinks of how the way Jules’ jaw steeled made him tell his newest rookie afterwards in confidence, “I don’t care, Jules; you’re better than them.” He thinks of restless ambition, of making SRU on her first go-round, of keeping her spot after life-threatening injury. He thinks of the wolf-like mentality he has watched her develop, defending her place and her team like an attack dog, teeth bared and snarling at anyone who dares to interfere with Team One as she sees it. He thinks of her once-private sphere of locker room, of the moment in the field when she seems just as tall as any of them, of her high, bright laugh, and of rising to true potential because there was only so far something could push Jules before she shoved it right back, and had done so all her life.

He thinks of Ed, he thinks of Eddie, with his dark glasses, his dark jackets, and his fondness for rules, so long as he gets to make them. He thinks of the one-track focus on being the best, always the best, being the best in everything he ever did and absolutely hating himself whenever he failed, or thought he’d failed. He thinks of that lively pretend smile sometimes plastered onto his face in such a practiced way that it sends a chill up Greg’s spine. He thinks of standing in the background, acting all aloof and focused, while laughing at the team clowning around and pretending that he isn’t. He thinks of the palpable aura of skill the man gives off, and the deepest resolve, and the silent command for respect. He thinks of the genuine startled laugh when Ed learned he’d been made team leader. He thinks of shouted expletives, of pretending that all is right in the world and absolutely positively denying that there’s anything beyond right the fuck now, of being obnoxious and cocky and knowing he’s earned the right to behave as such. He thinks of mischief glinting off mirrored shades, of quiet phone calls in the still blue-toned hours before dawn, of his friend – his best friend for years – with his blood on his hands, screaming for a medic.

He thinks of the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, heaves a wet breath that takes too much effort as blood drains from his extremities; he thinks of the sticky slip under his feet that is his own blood, but he’s long past caring about himself in this moment.

In this moment, he thinks of nothing but Ed’s horrified night-grey-blue eyes, and the pang of regret he feels for putting that look on the man’s face. From this angle, Greg can see his throat working, eyes squeezed shut, tears caught in the pale lashes, and that’s it. That’s it. One last look at those familiar pale eyes, one last blink, one the last upside-down glance at the world as he heads down, down, the lights twisting out in black wonder. Down, down, down.

(He thinks he hears Ed scream his name, but he can’t be certain.)


End file.
